


off with his head

by Kasuka



Series: caught in the grey [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuka/pseuds/Kasuka
Summary: There’s a chair near the door that Souda pulls out of the way once he can fit an arm through—probably there to put under the doorknob and keep people like him from breaking and entering, but his old man’s never been known for being the dependable sort.





	off with his head

Souda pops the lock with a little help from a pocket knife. Pushing the door inward takes more effort, but he takes his time rather than force it and, soon enough, he sees the reason why. Plastic bags from convenience stores overflowing with trash line the hallway, along with cardboard boxes of who-knows-what and beer cans. There’s a chair near the door that Souda pulls out of the way once he can fit an arm through—probably there to put under the doorknob and keep people like him from breaking and entering, but his old man’s never been known for being the dependable sort.

He flips the knife in his hand as he steps over the threshold, eyes drawn to the decomposing foot sticking out from the kitchen area.

No, not dependable _at all_.

The television’s on in the living room, and the crackle of static is loud enough that Souda doesn’t try to keep quiet as he navigates through the hallway, deeper into the house. He’s been monitoring what his old man’s been up to, knows where to and how he’ll find him. 

             I don’t understand, Gundham’s words echo in his ears when he stops in front of the bedroom door. Killing that man won’t bring you any amount of despair. It is a foolish endeavor. 

Souda hadn’t looked up from the drawing in front of him, pencil tapping against the table in time with his racing thoughts. He knew what Gundham stared at—he had multiple monitors set up in his workshop, but tonight he only had one on: the live streams from the cameras he’d put up in his parents’ house. 

             What’re you talking about? He’s my dad, no matter the shit he’s pulled, y’know? Of course I’m gonna feel despair when–—he put stress on the word _when_ because it wasn’t a matter of _if_ –—I kill him. Isn’t that why you killed your old lady?

He turns the doorknob slowly and follows the door into the room. Leaning his weight against the wood, he flips the knife once more and stares at the man asleep in his bed, his slumber deep and dreamless with the help of **a lot** of liquid courage. 

The mattress sinks with his weight, but the man doesn’t stir even as he settles above him, knees beside either hip. It isn’t until Souda rests his weight upon him and slaps a hand across his mouth that his eyes snap open, but the knife’s been drawn across his throat by then. A spray of blood stains the front of his jumper; the rest flows out onto the pillow underneath the man’s head. 

Souda presses two fingers to the man’s neck after a couple of minutes, checking for a pulse he knows he won’t find, then sits back to admire what he’s wrought. He feels a twinge of disappointment between his ribs and grits his teeth. 

             “ _Shit_.”

He gets off the bed, wipes the knife clean on the leg of his jumper. Disappoint is the _worst_ feeling in the world; **she** taught them that.

He doesn’t bother to shut the front door when he leaves. 

 

Outside Souda keeps to the shadows, a force of habit more than actual concern for being caught unawares by the Future Foundation. He hasn’t been followed—as far as he knows, they have no idea where he is. Souda doesn’t know if it’s a compliment to him that he’s gone so long without blatant detection at this point, or a demonstration that the organization is in over their heads.

Souda never steps foot from any one place without leaving trails of bodies miles long behind him.

He’s halfway to the warehouse he’s set up as a base when a dog steps out from an alleyway. He stops a yard or so in front of it, hands shoved deep in the front pockets of his jumper. It’s one of Gundham’s, but it doesn’t show the signs of the neglect and abuse he practices; a dog for guidance and protection, then.

The dog stares of him for a moment and sniffs the air, then turns its head in the direction east of where Souda was walking. Souda follows its gaze.

When it begins to walk away, he doesn’t hesitate to follow.

 

The apartment complex Souda’s led to is more than a little decrepit, death and decay clinging to cement and iron like cigarette smoke to cotton and leather. He leans against the doorframe of the room underneath the stairs and thumbs the broken lock as he stares at Gundham sitting upon the bed; he isn’t wearing his straitjacket—for all intents and purposes, he looks _normal_. 

             “You do not feel despair,” he says by way greeting.

             “No.” Souda almost chokes on his consent, the words tacky in the back of his throat. “I didn’t feel anything. I don’t.”

Gundham beckons to him. “Come. I will remind you of what despair feels like.”


End file.
